


Through Dangers and Magics Untold

by ShugoRyuu



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: AKA- what happens when I misread day 2's prompt on the 13 days of blackice as fantasy and not scifi, Fantasy AU, M/M, Some mentions of violence, Sorcerer!Pitch, black magic, mythological creatures, sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:56:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2491883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShugoRyuu/pseuds/ShugoRyuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the sorcerer known as Pitch Black travels farther North to continue his studies in Black Magic, he comes across something... that <em>doesn't belong.</em> Worse still, it refuses to obey his orders and that <b>is. not. allowed.</b> He was <b>Pitch Black</b> and <b>nothing</b> defied him! At least... <em>Not for long.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Through Dangers and Magics Untold

As Pitch swallows his tongue so that it does not once again betray him, he thinks back on how he came to kneel before such a massive beast. It was foolhardy to believe nothing that once existed, does not still exist in some far corner of this wretched world. Yet Pitch had allowed himself to get cocky. To get too prideful. The taste is sour in his mouth, like a child’s sugary coated dream, and he flexes, testing the bonds that keeps his arms crossed behind him and his shoulders in a constant strain. He glowers up at the impressive beast, it’s body towering over him at sixty feet high, but built for speed and reflexes, his girth/width measuring in at about only twenty feet.

Pitch really never knew when to stop, his mouth opening of it’s own accord to taunt, as he stares death in the face.

——— _Before_

Pitch jerks and curses as he stumbles, the words colorful and landing among the many rocks he falls onto, the inky portal behind him screeching out of existence. His knees and palms sting, a few dots of blood, but he gets up grumbling none the less. The dark sorcerer straightens, brushes his dark robes off with a snap of his wrists, and slowly turns his head, ears strained and eyes trying to take in as much information as possible in as quick amount of time as he was able.

He’s far further north than he should be, fat flakes of snow falling into dark hair and wetting his heavy robes. The cloth, though heavy, does little to shield him from the cold. Made more for show of stature, than for insulation, but it is beneath him to shiver, so Pitch does not.

Grabbing his robes about him, he turns and marches towards the sight of smoke in the distance. His work would only be hindered more in the long run if he were to not find adequate lodging from the cold. A sneer pulls at his lips when the wet ends of his robes smack against the backs of his legs, soaking the pants in a cold wet that climbs. And perhaps some more _fitting_ clothing would not be amiss as well.

The snow is only a few inches deep, enough to start the ground turning white but not so much that his footsteps didn’t leave the rocks beneath the snow peaking out to say hello.

The sun is sinking below the horizon when Pitch finally reaches the small settlement. It’s painfully obvious that most of them are non-magic bearers, no personal charms and spells upon each person, but the curious thing is that the whole town shimmers with magic. It’s puzzling and as Pitch sends out a bit of his magic to explore, he can tell that the open rocky fields and mountains are covered in a magic as well. It’s impossible to tell what it is, though it should be an obvious protection charm, and Pitch is intrigued. Who would want to disguise a protection spell? And who would be powerful enough to hide the spell’s true intentions as such?

He’s still deep in thought when he comes to the edge of the town, where the air shimmers in a light to him as only magic wielders can see, and he expects to pass with little trouble. After all, the spells in the fields had let him open a portal here, so why should he be unwelcome here?

Instead, he presses forward and the feeling is not unlike walking into a wall of clear cloth, both bending enough to contort to his every feature and unbending enough to not allow him more than a pace and a half into the settlement’s land.

Just as he reaches for his magic, his hands flexing when he calls upon what is rightfully his, he feels a wind rush through his head harshly and quickly. His connection to his magic cuts off, his hands first dropping limp by his sides and then yanking back up to grab at his head. His fingers are inches away from touching his scalp where if he could think, he would be attempting to banish the fool who _dared_ enter his mind, when the feeling is gone and a sound like doors slamming shut echos in his head.

He’s dazed long enough for a kid to come up and politely say in his native tongue a greeting of sorts.

Pitch turns silver eyes on the boy, lowers his hovering hands and is about to reply when the kid tries again, with good CommonSpeak, but a horrible accent, “Hullo Mister.”

Pitch gives the boy a glare and at the same time realizes that the cloth preventing him from entering the settlement has now vanished. He scoffs and strides forward.

The kid matches him, four steps equal to one of Pitch’s. “Ah wouldn’t worry tah much ‘bout tha Wind. He does tha’ to everyb **oh** dy!” The kid’s grin is brilliant when Pitch gives the boy a sideways glance. “’Course it’s usu **ah** ly only once tah everyone, he’s tryin’ tah watch over all of us here.” There’s another smile that’s sweet enough to cause Pitch to cringe. Resolutely he stares forward, intent on making a beeline for the Inn. Kids never knew what they were talking about, always with their heads in the clouds, mixing fact with fiction and causing disastrous messes. They made nothing short of a mockery of everything. His lips curled downwards in distaste without his knowledge and still the kid bantered on.

“You dohn’t re **ah** ly talk **ah** ll that much, huh Mister?”

Pitch settles for grinding his teeth once, then twice, instead of constricting the air around the kid’s throat, if only because it would be a waste of magic and because he would very much like to _at least_ _ **start**_ on good graces with this settlement. He crosses up the steps to the porch of the Inn, feels the pressure building behind his ears, reaches for the door and crosses the threshold as the pressure suddenly pops, his eardrums following the sentiment.

The boy is still chattering ambiently in his ear, now on something about his cat, Kaukas, who was now super fluffy, as fluffy as a Pitch didn’t give a flying dung.

The Inn Keeper’s head snaps up at the _‘pop’_ and locks eyes with Pitch. There’s a moment where he thinks he wont pass inspection, which is _ridiculous_ because he’s hardly ever had to charm anyone to get his way and he certainly didn’t want to have to start now, before she smiles at him. It’s small and wary but the tension leaks out of her shoulders like slowly melting snow.

“ _Naji._ Come.”

The boy flows like water to her and she reads off a list of things he was _supposed_ to be doing before sending him away with a sigh. She turns her attention back to the now irritable Pitch and rolls her eyes. “Come. You look like a drenched cat.” When he doesn’t move she stresses “ _Come._ ”

Grumbling silently to himself, because this is _not_ how he should be treated, he silently strides up to the counter. She takes a look at him, top to bottom and pinches the bridge of her nose. Pitch catches a barely mumbled “Thank goodness I still have a fitting spell left.” And proceeds to tell him which room he may use, the time of breakfast and finally the cost of the night and meals.

She’s closing the door to his room to leave him be when she pauses, hand still on the door and a thoughtful look on her face. Opening the door the rest of the way she levels a look with him, catching his eyes and keeping them. “There are rules here, Mr. Black, and it’s best to adhere to them. Normally I’d say this common sense but, well.” Her eyes flick to his robes and to the now visible expensive Black-wood staff leaning against the wall before grabbing his again, “These children and the lands are protected. Use caution when you think harm is the only option.”

Before he can fully complete his scowl at her, she is gone. A plain woman with plain brown hair telling _him_ what he should and should not do. Preposterous. He snorts an aborted laughter at the image of her trying to tell him to do _anything_ when he has a silence grip on her, invisible hands wrapped around her throat, and her feet kicking in the air to find purchase. He finishes unpacking and sits down to decide his course for the next few days.

—

He decides to stay in this unnamed settlement. Well. It _has_ a name, Pitch just can’t be bothered to learn or retain the name of it. It’s hardly worth his time and he’s been set back enough as it is. He feels he is not too far North for anything to be of a problem, but personally, being far enough North anywhere to make it snow even just a little bit was too far.

He steps out into the cold morning air, breath misting white and borrowed clothes well insulating. They were in shades of brown, the only clothes left being those of children’s, his face contorts with a sneer drenched in disgust, thus the dark color against stark white snow and the need for a fitting spell. He absolutely did not mention he knew the fitting spell, nor did he offer to perform one instead of her wasting a perfectly good stored spell. They looked expensive too. Pitch grinned.

Stalking forward he gets to work. Best to see what he can make use of here, before the snow starts coming fast and heavy. The clouds above are dark and pregnant, the wind like frost freezing off his cheeks, and _this_ , Pitch recalls dryly, is why he preferred underground caverns and basements to perform his work in. Pleasantly cool to take the edge off of his ever burning body temperature, but not so cold as to freeze his bloody ass off in.

—

The children are fucking annoying and need to die.

Pitch glares at the current brat in front of him, chattering and trying to convince Pitch to go anywhere other than where he’s going. It doesn’t matter much _why_ Pitch is going in a certain direction, just that he shouldn’t go and instead pay attention to the snot nosed brat in front of him. The one who is absolutely not even worth his time and if the parents don’t teach their kids some manners, then Pitch will have to. The mental image of the brat before him screaming in terror as Pitch flashes pictures of bath blood scenes worthy of fire side stories through the child’s mind brings a creeping smile across his face.

The boy shrieks happily thinking he had done so and is gone to brag to his friends before Pitch can do more than an eye twitch and a reaching of long fingers.

Children. He fucking hated children.

He crosses the border of the settlement, feels not even so much as a breath as he passes it, and continues into the rocky terrain he first arrived in. He carries his sack, filled with precious materials and tomes, and his long black-wood staff. The staff is taller than his six feet five and has intricate carvings running up and down the staff with only a few gold rings separating the staff into smaller segments. The top is capped in a clear orb with currently, stagnant black glittering particles arranged in a sort of swirl that reaches out with finger like tendrils. Pitch thinks this is his favorite idle mode and is almost disappointed that he’ll be changing it with his magic.

Finding a suitable clearing that shouldn’t bruise Pitch _too much_ with it’s ground made of very pointy and very numerous rocks, he sets about clearing away the snow. The mountains tower in the backdrop to the North and more than a few times Pitch finds himself breaking out of a transfixion, his eyes trained on the mountains. It unsettles him because he’s a powerful enough sorcerer that this should not even be an issue and he brushes off the feeling of being watched. He _can’t_ be watched. He had set up his own _personal_ spell of warding and concealing. There had yet to be someone to make one better or to even put a dent in his spell. Besides, it was crafted specifically to be loud when broken so that he may pinpoint the time his defenses are breached and the source. He has heard no sort of sound and so it is only the wretched children and their old wives tales making him paranoid.

He sets back into his work with a determined scowl but still ends up breaking from his stare at the mountains three more times before he finishes.

He sets up his floor so that when he sits in the middle of his symbols, he may do so with his back to the North. He cannot afford to get distracted now. The symbols overlap each other, different herbs, spices, and plants crushed into fine grains that slips through the cracks in the rocks but still make his desired shapes no less.

Finally seated, with no more than eight sharp pointed damned to hell rocks sticking in his rear and legs, he gets to work. A snap of his fingers lights the eight candles and a soft breeze snuffs them out before the sound is done fading away in the clearing. Glaring, he snaps again.

The wind blows and takes the light with it. Pitch swears he can hear the mockery in the air.

He snaps **and** says the lighting spell through gritted teeth, determined to make the spell stronger than some mere breeze and the resulting gust of wind takes out the lights and tangles his hair. It’s the mocking laughter of his peers on the wind, if they could see this, that he hears and with a shout of the spell he stands and stamps his foot.

The candles light and the wind whistles a chortle through the rocks but the flames do not waver.

Seething, shoulders upright and tense, fingers clenched and digging into his palms, he sits back down. He has to count to ten before he can stop being so upset that he can’t strangle the wind and makes a note to resolve that problem magically at a later time. Surely there was a spell for that.

—

Ten locations later, charred clothing, burnt off eyebrows, singed hair, foul smelling everything and six. hours. later. Pitch finally throws down his spell tome and yells obscenities to the wind, the land, the dammed rocks, magic, candles and every other thing he can think to blame all of his _explosive_ utter **failures** on.

He goes back to the settlement only to have to suffer through not killing each and every child that seems to have made it their life’s mission to destroy him. The little demons chatter on about everything from their dearest dog, to the fluffy sheep, to giants, wyverns, unicorns and all other assortments of rubbish. It’s with the latter that he’s had enough.

He whirls around on the crowd of seven children and red faced he shouts at them, “You are all fucking snot nosed brats who cannot tell the difference between make believe and the real world. There are **NO** wyverns! There are **NO** unicorns! They were all brutally murdered a thousand years ago. A THOUSAND. By humans LIKE YOU. Faeries don’t exist, not have they ever, and Santa Clause is a lie your parents make up to keep you under their thumb. Good bye and GOODNIGHT.”

The slammed Inn door makes a nice touch, he thinks, as he stomps up the staircase. He can hear the plain Inn lady tromping up the steps behind him, no doubt to either try and “teach him a lesson” or to give him a lecter. He is above her and thus above any sort of retribution she thinks she sees fit to give him so he bars the door with fancy, complicated magic, assured she has nothing to break the sort, and goes about venting his anger into the furniture.

—

This repeats for two more days. The only piece of furniture laying intact is his bed and the desk. Those two, at least, are safe from the brunt of his fury simply by being important enough for him to spare. Everything else, from the chest to the candle stands, had been destroyed. The Inn lady had yet to get into his room with the wards he put on it, but since he kept paying each night she did little more than press her lips into a thin line whenever she saw him. They exchanged no words and it was quiet and early in the morning when he set out again, on his fourth day in this horrible place.

After his third attempt sends him flying backwards into the snow, a huge ominous cloud of green-black smoke pluming and exploding all over the place, Pitch looses his temper. There’s not a whole lot around him in the ways of anything living, nor would there be if he hadn’t caused so many explosions in such a close area but he jumps to his feet with murder in his mind all the same. He screams his frustration into a spell, hands filling with dark flames and he hurls them at the ground. Chunks of rock and stilt fly, dust clouds and more magic fire flies. The land around him is starting to look like a minefield when a deep voice speaks in Pitch’s mind over his rantings. It’s deep enough to shake his spine, tremors running up and down his very nervous system and thrumming in his bones. The words come through as though he was being scolded as a child. As. A. **CHILD.**

He whirls around, scowl more than permanently etched into his glowing face, and he gathers the flames in both hands together and screams just what he thinks of _anyone,_ _ **anyone**_ trying to tell **HIM** what to do!

The moment the fire leaves his fingertips a cold rush of jagged wind blows across his mind, dragging blackness with it and the pain **burns** it’s so cold, as a voice orders him _“Enough.”_

_—_

There’s no moment of delayed pain when Pitch comes around. It’s immediate. It’s already there, feasting on his nervous system causing pain to run up and down him in shuddering waves, when Pitch comes around. Everything hurts so bad that he cannot even bear to open his eyes.

Damn the scholar that he wrangled the information for his spells out of. Damn him for refusing to show him how to properly use them. Damn him to a wretched, tortuous hell. _**No one**_ refused Pitch! No one! And he refused to believe that the scholar did not know the proper way to use them so damn him to a double hell for daring to lie to Pitch.

Wetness soaked into his chilled skin from all sides. The rocks dug and needled their way into his backs, overlapping pains and coldness making him shiver and then cringe from the movement. Everything hurt like it was on fire and still somehow bleeding.

Damn the children and their insistent babbling. Damn their happy faces and shrieking laughter. Damn them all.

The snow was soaking into his clothing and creeping over his arms and legs like the snow bank was as deep as him and threatening to bury him.

Damn that magic being unreliable. For not constraining to Pitch’s every wish and demand. How **dare** it disobey him. How **dare** it do as he commands it. Magic was the slave and Pitch was it’s master. How dare it do anything other than what he demanded of it.

The coldness creeps in and instead of numbing the pain, it only seems to intensify it. A harsh hiss of pain escapes Pitch’s lips and they’re chapped and sluggishly bleeding. His throat is raw and with every flex, it scratches against itself and pain laces up and down his throat.

Laughter comes from a distance and it sounds like a child almost to the painful realization that the world is hell and that he’s now considered an adult. Almost there, but not quite. The sound dances on the wind that is now attempting to rip Pitch’s nose off and he curses it and the world. Trying to sit up is like willingly dumping himself into a vat of liquid metal and the scream escapes him before he can stop it. He’s expecting to hear a delightful horrified scream from the kid by the time he stumbles across Pitch’s body, he’s no doubt an utter wreck. But instead the laughter trails off to silence. Somewhere right before a whiteout from the pain of opening his eyes, he sees startlingly bight blue eyes.

They’re huge and in his face, blinking down at him curiously. Then a brilliant smile stretches across his pale skin and the teeth are too bright to be right when the kid laughs again, delighted. “Cute.” He says and as Pitch whites out from the pain it’s with a thousand creative curses on tip of his tongue.

—

Pitch wakes with near unbearable pain, but finds he can move just fine. With this realization he nearly makes a full jump from laying prone to standing up and with the action, the whole world tilts and rushes up to meet him. Throwing his hands out at awkward angles because everything _hurt so much_ and because his muscles were slow to respond he reaches and throws his magic out to cushion his fall with a buble of air. He crashes through the spot and straight onto his right angled arm and hears the snap of bone before the scream rips his throat. He’s on the floor, staring at the pristine white of his bone smeared with blood sticking out of his arm, when the door to the room opens. Feet make no noise on the stone flooring but there stands the boy from before, bare feet, white hair and shocking blue eyes. He makes a strange sound in the back of his throat looking at Pitch before throwing his arms up in exasperation. “Oh my god. Did you hurt yourself _**again**_?”

Pitch swears it was a spell or something making him white out again. Mind damaging pain or not, Pitch refused to faint in front of children. In fact, Pitch Black did **not** faint. Period.

—

He wakes to the snow child, something more out of a faerie or sprite children’s book than the real world, poking his head with a wooden staff. It’s brown wood, looking to be oak or ash wood and Pitch narrows his eyes at such a low end material staff before swatting the offending thing away.

Immediately the kid’s face brightens, “Finally! I was beginning to think you were going to try and sleep yourself to death.”

Says the annoying kid with snow colored skin. That… faintly sparkled now that he was looking.

“Anyways, up. Up!”

Pitch bristled and snapped at the boy. Literally snapped at him. Teeth clacking together and all but the kid gave nary a blink before shoving Pitch out the bed. Pitch doesn’t have time to contemplate this worrisome slip of behavior as he’s forced to be reunited with the ground again so soon. He drops and rolls this time, not wanting a repeat of last time and vowing to try his magic at a later time again.

“Where am I?” He hisses out instead as he rises to his full height, attempting to tower over the nymph like creature. The snow boy flits out from beneath him and flashes sharp glacier eyes at Pitch for the question before a smile lights his face again and he disappears. “No questions.”

“No ques-” Pitch’s voice is gathering bellowing quality volume and anger when the boy shoves the butt end of his staff in the square of Pitch’s back, forcing him forwards.

“Nope.” The ‘p’ pops from the boy’s mouth and the staff stabs Pitch in the back again and he whips around to grab it, “How **dare** you-”

The boy slips away backwards before darting forwards and bopping Pitch on the head with his staff in his confusion. He’s gone again as the pain laces through Pitch’s body, awakening every pain he felt before he came here all at once. It fades after a second and leaves him to find himself on his hands and knees, gasping.

“No questions.” The boy is entirely to gleeful about all this and Pitch calls upon his magic to rid himself of the problem. He feels it gather, opens his mouth to say the words and finds the magic will not leave his body. He’s struggling with the magic, trying to coax, then rip, it out when the boy gives an exasperated sigh.

“Seriously?” He asks before looking at Pitch disappointed. “For a human you sure are dumb.”

Anger clouds his judgment and before Pitch can grasp what happened, he’s bound. There are binds made of magic, it thrums in him so loudly he can hear it as much as he can feel it pressing into his flesh, and they yank his arms behind his back, opposite hands to opposite elbows. The binds wrap around his chest and shoulders, keeping his posture straight and polite while still restraining him. It stretches his muscles in an edging on uncomfortable strain and Pitch goes to force them away when a wind propels him forward.

Alarmed, his eyes go wide and a shout emerges from him unbidden as the boy cackles madly behind him. He’s flying in the air, down clear ice hallways and walls, and the boy looks so alive and delighted in that moment that anger courses through Pitch. He’ beautiful and happy in a way no one deserves to be. Free and he would give everything to cage that sin against Pitch. **Pitch** wasn’t that happy, that free, what did a simpleton like hi-

The wind falls dead and forward moment cheerily drags Pitch face forward into another greeting with the polished stone floor. His nose cracks as his temper does but the magic refuses to leave his core, to answer to his calling and he curses everything and it’s lineage.

He’s lifted up by the wind to stand again, another wretched breeze sets his nose with a second crack and Pitch snaps at that too because he could.

There’s a large, hot huff of amusement and Pitch glowers up in front of him. And up. and up. and up.

It shouldn’t exist.

It **cannot** exist.

They were all wiped out, this was _**impossible!**_

Each silver claw was the height of Pitch, and following the claws up the forepaws, to the legs, to the body, to the head…. It was a dragon. It was a mother fucking dragon and those didn’t exist anymore!

The last ones were wiped out a thousand years ago! Recorded! Documented! Authenticated!

But here, towering over him, was a dragon. A West Dragon. Silver scales ranging in size, all tinted with a glacier blue, roved all over the beast’s body. His head was long and tapered at the end, small spikes decorating not only his head, but down the ridge of his spine and tail. His tail ended in a thin cone like mace of long spikes that tapered to needle points.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

The dragon had the audacity to be amused. The fae child was gone, but the laughter was implied.

“An illusion.”

The dragon smiled, many rows, too many to count from far below the dragon, of silver teeth, sharp and edged, filling the smile. It seemed tinged with sarcasm and Pitch silently damned him for that too.

Even as the fae boy’s warning rang in his head, Pitch raised his chin, made eye contact with the huge blue blue eyes of the dragon illusion and demanded “Who are you?” His voice rises even as the dragon’s eyes narrows, “And Who paid you t-”

An invisible, **heavy** force shoves him down to his knees and something compresses around his heart making him stutter and gasp. It’s gone in the next instant and as Pitch recovers, he swears the dragon looks pleased. How dare it.

A deep voice sounds in the castle, starting in the throne room they’re in and spreading out to the rest of the castle. _**“Need you proof?”**_ The claws clack against the polished grey stone of the floor, and Pitch realizes with a start that it’s the kind of polish that comes from overuse. Of constant use. And it’s about then that one of those massive claws that could swipe through him like butter, comes to against his neck. The silver bone is cool and sharp, he feels his life blood seep onto it and Pitch hopes it stains. Because being held by anyone was **insulting** but _this_ was an immortal. And most probably a dragon.

Pitch swallows his tongue so that it does not once again betray him and he tries to run through all the possibilities and all the scenarios for each, on how he gets out of this on top. It was foolhardy to believe nothing that once existed, does not still exist in some far corner of this wretched world. Yet Pitch had allowed himself to get cocky. To get too prideful. The taste is sour in his mouth, like a child’s sugary coated dream, and he flexes, testing the bonds that keeps his arms crossed behind him and his shoulders in a constant strain. He glowers up at the impressive beast, it’s body towering over him at sixty feet high, but built for speed and reflexes, his girth/width measuring in at about only twenty feet. The claw retracts with a look of amusement and indulgence washing over the dragon’s face.

Pitch really never knew when to stop, his mouth opening of it’s own accord to taunt, as he stares death in the face.

“You cannot keep me here.”

“ _ **No?”**_ The voice is not angry, merely amused and it boils Pitch’s blood beneath his skin.

“You cannot take humans prisoner! There are laws!”

The dragon tilts his head and the long neck stretches and the beast leans forward, head closer to Pitch. _**“You think yourself human?”**_

“Of course!” That’s the only way the laws would work and wait… Suspiciously he looks back up at the dragon. “Why?”

There’s a huff of laughter, warm air blowing over Pitch’s face and it smells like the woods in wintertime. _**“You realize that the magic you attempt to play in is black magic, yes?”**_

Play? _PLAY?_ He did not _PLAY_ in Black Magic! He was it’s master and it would do as he commanded or he woul-

The dragon leans back, stretching back up to his previous position of proper posture and sits looking at him. _**“I would advise you to stop while you still can. You are not as human as you once were.”**_

“Stop?! STOP?! And **pray tell** WHY I would listen to **you**?!”

The force clenches around his heart again and around all the rest of his insides. He trembles, gasping and leaning backwards against the pain as to not fall forward on his nose again.

“ _ **I have been tolerant. I shall not do so again.”**_

When the pain fades he levels his most vhenomous glare against the dragon. The dragon couldn’t look happier and the images of death and torturing enter Pitch’s mind again. The smile stretching across his face as he imagined roasting the dragon in a volcano, one appendage at a time, and separating his wings while still alive to use in spells and curses.

“ _ **Only a fool would not see that you have been affected already. Poisonous thoughts will leech into actions young one.”**_

“I am not young.”

The dragon smiled, _**“You are like young pup. You think yourself all powerful yet have tiny claws and little knowledge of magic.”**_

Anger getting the best of Pitch he attempts to curse the dragon, but again the magic refuses to come to his call.

“ _ **Hm. I think I shall keep you. You are amusing at the very least.”**_

“You cannot keep me here! I will kill you! I’ll murder your young! I’ll -”

“ _ **Try. You will try.”**_ The dragon tilts his head at Pitch again but still looks bored. _**“I’ll offer you a deal. I will let you leave this place in exchange for your service.”**_

Pitch laughed.

“No. How about this. Dragons were known for their intellect, then you should realize that I **will** kill you. Even if it takes me a while, I **will** kill you. So in exchange for not killing you, you’ll not only let me leave free, but you will also teach me how to become immortal.”

The dragon’s stare is unimpressed and everything is silent while Pitch stands his ground and resolutely ignores the fact that he’s on his knees and tries to look more intimidating than he is to the dragon. Unfortunately that worked better when standing over someone with a haughty and condemning look on his face. He’ll just have to settle for the look. He hated settling.

“ _ **No.”**_ The dragon said finally, bored. The dragon continued before Pitch could even hiss, _**“There is no benefit to allowing such a tainted thing to have immortality. I will not offer you immortality.”**_ He paused and looked at Pitch, or rather, inside Pitch it seemed. It felt cold and dissecting. Pitch immediately decided he hated it. _**“However. Should you stay in my employment, I will teach you how to control your taint. And perhaps some magic when you are ready and if I feel so inclined.”**_ At the sight of the upcoming refusal and temper tantrum the dragon added, _**“It is much kinder a proposition than the ice dungeons you will see otherwise.”**_ a beat of silence and then, _**“I don’t suppose you’ve yet realized how the light hurts you so? Ice magnifies it wonderfully.”**_

“Y-you’re threatening me!” He didn’t have the right to do that!

The dragon leaned his head close enough for Pitch to count eight rows of pointed silver teeth when the dragon grinned, _**“Only if it’s working.”**_

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this! :D Took quite a while to make!
> 
> I have ideas for more of this work, but honestly I've been working on it for so long that I just wanted to post it as done for now. When I get the energy {and figure out how to grab the scenes from my head and put them in words on here} I might write more if ya'll are interested. The scenes pick up from right where this ends and delves more into how Pitch handles his captivity _coughcough **notwell** coughcough_ and his bargaining attempts along with the dragon, fae boy and their relationship.
> 
> If that's something you're interested in, let me know! :) Or if there's anything else from this verse you would like to see. :D


End file.
